Futur
by technicolor-werewolf
Summary: It is the early 1840s, and while a handful of the lieutenants of the Amis de l'ABC are yet living, Prouvaire doesn't know how to handle the loss of so much of his world. One-shot, complete.


Today I met Courfeyrac again.

He had a woman with him, whom I assumed must be a wife, as there was a little boy clinging to her skirts and these good bourgeois could not publicly admit of any other cause for his existence. And he has, indeed, become a good bourgeois - when I called out to him in the street, he didn't even recognize me until I dashed up and reintroduced myself. "Jehan _Prouvaire_?" he said in amazement.

"Oh, it's just Jean," I said quietly, and smiled at this Son of Courfeyrac, who dutifully made a face at this strange man who knew his father from years upon years ago.

Thirty-five, Courfeyrac is now, and married to a Madame de Courfeyrac ("Oh, _Courfeyrac_, you've recovered your _particle_?" "My dear Prouvaire, it is no longer so out-of-fashion."), with a little Philippe de Courfeyrac ("Don't tell me he's named after that _king_!" "No, Louise' father. Don't tell _me_ you're still going on about that!") to show for it…and he has, indeed, become a good bourgeois. We parted more un-amicably than ever we two have, and I almost wish I hadn't seen him again at all.

_Don't tell me you're still going on about that._ Dieu, didn't he remember _anything_? Out of the lieutenants of the Amis de l'ABC, Enjolras and Feuilly died in the rebellions of '32, Combeferre picked up tuberculosis and died in late '33 of a self-administered experimental treatment, and Bahorel went in '34 in a silly street riot, only months before he would have somehow accidentally come to passing the bar. Grantaire (if he counted) disappeared too after Enjolras, but Joly's still somewhere around Paris trying to finish up his medicine without dying of it; I ran up to him on the street the other day and he lectured me on hygiene – I wanted to laugh and call him Jolllly as we used to, and tell him that _ces quatre ailes_ of his would carry him far beyond need of Hygiea's ministrations, but I knew neither of us had the spirit any longer for such things. Still living with Lesgle, of course; they're the only ones who know how to take care of each other. We've gone through a lot, and lost so much, and gained so _little_.

The primary objective of the soul is happiness, isn't it? Courfeyrac, or, I suppose now, _de_ Courfeyrac, certainly seems happy now. And I'm happy enough too, really. I've got my own friends, and my poetry, and God, and when I put them together I've got Hope too – I like to think that my patron saint these days is Pandora. I've got decent work, in the bookshop that sold the first copy of Hugo's _Nouvelles Odes et Poésies Diverses_. But that can't be all a man lives for, can it? Once upon a time, I used to _know_ what the answer to that question was. Man lived then for justice, for love, for freedom. Life was a song, and songs were full of truth, and truth was there to be taken in hand and thrown back to the world in a blaze of light, and light was free for every man, and men were _good_…

Not that there aren't good men now, and not that Man in general isn't good of course. But somehow, these days the streets seem darker than they did in my student days. On some days the sun shines less brightly, the wind blows less furiously; I find myself less and less inclined to wander forth to revel in awe and more and more inclined to stay within and _wonder _instead. My friends say I'm turning melancholy, and growing old. I'm only thirty this May, but I can remember when I thought I would be twenty forever. Like the shell of a seed, consumed by the growing tree – like spring rain, like the laughter of friends, like the flowers for Combeferre's mother that I didn't forget this year…those times are long, long gone.

I told Michel and Pierre I'd meet them at Mother Damien's for dinner. I hurry in, and Pierre turns around with the biggest grin.

"Ah, Jean! You're just in time, cheri!"

"No," I say quietly, tears on my cheeks. "I'm too late."


End file.
